


Ask your enemies for advice, do the opposite

by BakedAppleSauce



Series: The desert is a waste of time [31]
Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: (I'm basically disemboweling s3), (which is where the plot-aspect comes from), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Breaking Up & Making Up, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Development, Denial of Feelings, Developing Relationship, M/M, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, playing fast and loose with canon, the clowing is as strong as ever
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:53:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26865460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakedAppleSauce/pseuds/BakedAppleSauce
Summary: “By the way, another thing,” Ollie says. “Birmingham called.”“What?” Alfie says again. He’s making a habit of it this morning, he thinks, it’s highly fucking irritating. He wasn’t even late today, save for the one minute Cyril refused to leave the house, so how come he missed this much already? “When?”In which some bridges are still burning and everybody pretends to be fireproof.(This is part of a... at this point pretty substantial overall AU, so maybe read some of that first. Or don't. I'm not your boss.)
Relationships: Tommy Shelby/Alfie Solomons
Series: The desert is a waste of time [31]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1310750
Comments: 105
Kudos: 243





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Now with added fanart! This is so exciting!! Everybody, go and [check out Ollie,](https://mastcells-blog.tumblr.com/post/631298018536194048/the-alfie-and-ollie-show-bakedapplesauce-help) drawn by the utterly fantastic [Mastcells](https://mastcells-blog.tumblr.com/) on tumblr!

On Monday morning, it’s pouring from the heavens like God himself is planning to take a bath and doesn’t feel like waiting for too long.

Cyril is very displeased with this development, only deigning to cross the threshold and actually leave the bloody house after a full minute of coaxing. Alfie has half a mind to just leave him at home, but can’t bring himself to actually do it. 

His sciatica has been acting up all weekend – bearable for now, but that might be a different story entirely once the evening comes around. He arrives at the bakery drenched to the bone (not  _ to the bone _ exactly, there’s the layers and all that, because Alfie is a wise man after all, but why ruin a good metaphor) and inexplicably famished; realizing only then that he forgot to bring today’s paper with him. It’s probably still curling innocently on top of his kitchen table at home. 

Will have to have Ollie send somebody out for another one, he thinks, they might get him some food while they’re at it. Cyril still seems to feel betrayed about being forced to venture out into the downpour, because he trots off with a disgruntled huff without sparing Alfie so much as a second glance. 

“Ollie,” Alfie bellows on his way to the office, because the lad is nowhere to be seen. Useless imbeciles, the lot of them. Shouts it again for good measure, even though Alfie didn’t expect him to appear out of thin air this very instant, because he’s clearly nowhere in the vicinity, but it feels good to be loud, _ “Ollie!”  _

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see somebody take off running, probably to go fetch the man in question. (Or maybe they’re just fleeing the scene. Got some people working here, Alfie thinks, what are too faint-hearted for this chosen profession. If you’re this terrified of your superior, you’re never gonna amount to anything in life.)

Ollie comes around the corner. He’s clearly arrived before Alfie, got his apron on and no jacket, but his hair and shoulders are damp. 

"Sorry, sorry," he says, breathless, pointing at the back entrance over his shoulder. "I was just checking on something." 

"I look like I fucking care," Alfie grumbles. "S’a rhetorical question, by the way. Forgot my paper at home, yeah, didn’t I, so…"

Ollie is staring right through him for a long second before he blinks himself back to reality. It’s a strange role reversal, really, because it tends to be the other way around. Alfie can’t say he cares for it much. He’s not the sharpest knife in the cutlery drawer of life, Ollie, but he’s usually a lot quicker than this. 

“What?” Alfie says. 

“Nothing,” Ollie says. At first, Alfie attributed the breathlessness to him hurrying back inside, but there’s clearly something else going on. 

“What, what is it? Hmm? What?”

“I…” Ollie says, before he straightens his shoulders a bit and says, looking determined to get it out. “I’m gonna be a father.”

There is a moment of reverent silence, both of them processing this information.

“Really?” Alfie says, baffled.

“Yeah, I… looks like. Found out this morning.”

“Fuckin’ hell,” Alfie mutters. Drags a hand down his face, and says, more to himself than to anybody else, “Only Monday as well. S’gonna be a fuckin’ week, this. Well, c’mon then, lad.” 

They amble into his office. Ollie watches him dig out the whiskey, still seeming a bit dazed. Wordlessly goes to fetch them two glasses at least, without Alfie having to instruct him, so there might be some hope for him yet. 

“To procreation,” Alfie says, once he’s filled both of them halfway. “And, inevitably, right, if all goes well, to the mother, who’s bound to do most of the heavy liftin’ in this situation.”

“To the mother,” Ollie says, looking like he’s trying very hard not to smile. 

They toast, clinking their glasses together while standing a bit awkwardly next to Alfie’s desk. 

Alfie sniffs the whiskey and furrows his brow, because at first he was convinced there was something off, but now there seems to be nothing wrong with it. Dips his pinkie in and brings it up to his nose to make sure, but after closer inspection, he was clearly mistaken. Ollie, as always, is unfazed by the entire display. He knocks back his drink, then nods at Alfie’s glass, knowing full well Alfie is not going to touch it. 

“Can I have that, too?”

_ “Can I have that, too,”  _ Alfie mimics him in a high-pitched voice. “Got a chance at some progeny, yeah, all of a sudden he’s fuckin’ insatiable. Here you go, mate, right-” He carefully pours the whiskey from his own glass into the one Ollie is holding out. “Not gonna make a bloody habit out of this, you hear me?” 

“’Course not,” Ollie says, way too seriously to actually be serious about it. He sips, a lot slower this time, while Alfie tries to recall how long he’s been married at this point. Was invited to the wedding, but that doesn’t mean he remembers how long it’s been. 

“By the way, another thing,” Ollie says. “Birmingham called.”

“What?” Alfie says again. He’s making a habit of it this morning, he thinks, it’s highly fucking irritating. He wasn’t even  _ late _ today, save for the one minute Cyril refused to leave the house, so how come he missed this much already? “When?”

“Very first thing,” Ollie says. “Hadn’t even taken my coat off yet.” 

“What do they want, then?”

“Tommy Shelby’s asking for a meeting,” Ollie says, quick and sure, a man ripping a verbal bandage off a wound that is many months old and shouldn’t-  _ doesn’t _ exist anymore.

“Well,” Alfie says, trying and probably failing to sound indifferent. “Fucker knows where to find me, don’t he.”

“He’s…” Ollie says, then stops himself, even though there’s clearly some additional information to be had. “They’re suggesting we come to them.”

Alfie stares at him blankly. Blinks once for good measure.

“Up North,” Ollie adds helpfully, just a tad bit too earnestly, especially because they’re both well aware Alfie didn’t need the clarification. 

Tommy Shelby has acquired his big, fuck-off country estate about six month ago. Completely legal, too, if you ignore the alleged blackmail and the alleged gambling debt and the alleged drugging of a person and the not-so-alleged research that went into said person and the whole operation beforehand, which Alfie happened to witness first hand, didn’t he. 

(Hell, he thinks, half of the planning probably took place in his very own living room, with Tommy curled up on  _ his _ couch, shooting him suspicious looks anytime Alfie came near any of the papers.)

Over the course of the last nine months, they’ve seen each other five times. 

Actually had to speak to each other on three of those occasions; one of them outright hostile, the other two a bit more civil. (Didn’t hurt that Alfie’s had Cyril with him that last time, who had been pleasantly surprised to see Tommy again. The feeling might have been mutual – with Tommy Shelby, wearing his official mask of indifference, it was always hard to tell.)

He’s been to London regularly, Tommy has – not like Alfie  _ cares _ all that much at this point, but he’s in a habit of keeping tabs on everything going on around the city and has done so for years, so he’s not going to stop just because Tommy… well. Has decided to whore around, is the least delicate way of putting it, and very publicly as well. The first time Alfie’s had to hear somebody refer to Tommy Shelby as “quite charming”, he had to stop himself from laughing in their face.

“Maybe you should call them back-”

“Maybe you should shut the fuck up,” Alfie interrupts him. “Yeah? How ’bout that? Hmm? Who’d you talk to?”

There is a long moment of silence, Ollie sloshing the last finger of whiskey around in his glass pensively. 

“...thought I was s’pposed to shut the fuck up,” he mutters innocently when Alfie makes an impatient noise, and  _ this _ might be the day Alfie strangles him, baby or not, this might be the day he finally gives in and wrings Ollie’s fucking neck.

“If you don’t have any desires,” Alfie says, gripping the back of his chair with both hands, low and utterly calm. “No desires at all, right, to have that smug fuckin’ expression slapped off your face at this point in time, Oliver, yeah, I’d heavily,  _ heavily _ reccommend-”

“His secretary,” Ollie says quickly. 

“Right, okay, well…” Alfie says, deflating instantly He stops to chew on the inside of his cheek, mulling it over in his head. “Here’s what you’re gonna do, right,” he says then. “You’re gonna call ’em back and tell ’em they’re cordially – and you gotta stress that, yeah, s’important to be polite, innit –  _ very _ cordially invited to collectively, yeah,” he brings both of his hands together like he’s holding an invisible football, an all-encompassing gesture, “...all of them, collectively, to go and fuck themselves.”

“Cordially,” Ollie says, nodding seriously.

“Cordially, yeah.”

“Got it.”

“There’s a good lad. Now fuck off, yeah, let me get on with some actual work.”

“You want the paper, you said?” 

“Yeah, yeah I do. Yeah. And some latkes.”

“All right.”

Alfie makes some noise in response, not paying him any attention anymore as he leaves. 

It’s slow going after that. Alfie can’t seem to focus, which is bloody annoying and not his fault in any way. Tommy won’t take no for an answer, Alfie thinks, because he never does. It’s like it doesn’t even register, people telling him something he doesn’t want to hear, the self-important little bastard. (Except when you tell him to get out and fuck off, some part of Alfie’s brain supplies bitterly, which… well, it’s very true, innit, even if it’s not something he particularly cares about, so. Not like it matters in the slightest.)

Still, there’s no fucking point. Alfie’s not going up to Birmingham any time soon, but he’s secure enough to admit that it wouldn’t hurt to know what the fuck is going on. Because it  _ never  _ hurts to know what the fuck is going on. Even if it’s got nothing to do with you. Even if  _ you  _ don’t want anything to do with  _ it,  _ whatever it may be.

Alfie reaches for his phone, holds the receiver in his hand for a long second, before he puts it back down again. Few people he could call about this, to try and narrow it down. All of his contacts up in Birmingham, reliable as they are, aren’t exactly situated within the inner circle of madness and razor blades and Tommy probably knows about most of them. Doesn’t have to be a disadvantage necessarily, unless he’s misinformed them on purpose.

Which would require him to actually  _ care  _ about Alfie checking in the first place, so chances are reasonably slim. As always, there’s the possibility this might be some thinly veiled murder plot, though Alfie’d like to think he’d be worth a bit more effort than that. Decent pretense to lure him in, at the very least. 

He picks up the receiver again, suddenly determined. Spends the next hour making phone calls and taking notes, absentmindedly chewing fried potatoes in between. In the end, he’s realized two things: One, he’s horribly out of practise with his Russian. (The eating probably didn’t help with the accent. Still, his mother'd never let him hear the end of this.) Two, this whole entire thing might hit much closer to home than he initially assumed. 

Around noon, predictably, Ollie is back again, peering into the room. 

“Birmingham is on the phone again. You available?”

“Nahhh, mate,” Alfie says, leaning back into his chair, interlacing his fingers on top of his stomach. “I’m out for a walk, aren’t I, takin’ in the fuckin’ sights and whatnot. Tower Bridge, right, bloody impressive. What do they want?”

“Well,” Ollie says slowly. “Still the same thing as this morning. Though I’m supposed to tell you it’s gonna be worth your while.”

“You cordially invited them to go fuck themselves, yeah?”

“Seeing as it’s Mr. Shelby on the phone,” Ollie says dryly. “No. No, I thought it would be better if I didn’t.”

Alfie blinks at him, taken aback and hating himself for it. Tommy hasn’t called personally in almost a year and Alfie is honestly not sure how to feel about it now – triumphantly gleeful, because technically he won, or dissatisfied with the fact that now the first step has been made and it wasn’t him who was doing it.  _ Fuck  _ Tommy Shelby, he thinks viciously, with a rage that seems to come out of nowhere. Believes he can just snap his fucking fingers and Alfie will come running. 

“Financial recompense,” he tells Ollie. “Yeah? You tell him that. M’not in the business of doing him any fuckin’ favors.”

“You’re going, then?” Ollie says. “Can I tell him-”

“Haven’t bloody decided yet, have I,” Alfie snaps. 

“Right…” Ollie says, sounding confused. How in the hell he can still be confused at this point is anybody’s guess. Probably the whiskey this morning, Alfie thinks, spiteful, nobody can hold their fuckin’ liquor anymore and now he’s stuck with the consequences. 

“And make sure to take down the address,” he tells Ollie. 

“… right,” Ollie says again, after a very resigned pause, and disappears again. 

Alfie is left alone in his office once more, running fingers through his beard, feeling strangely agitated. Fucking jinxed it this morning, didn’t he. S’gonna be a fucking _ week, _ indeed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is [more gorgeous fanart!! Of Tommy and his sapphire!](https://mastcells-blog.tumblr.com/post/631747696289579008/he-is-however-absolutely-fucking-sure-that-this) By the very lovely [mastcells](https://mastcells-blog.tumblr.com/) over on tumblr! (Check 'em out if you want to and make sure to give some love!)

Tommy marches into his drawing room exactly fourteen minutes after Mary told him everybody had arrived. Could hear his brothers on their way to the kitchen, talking loudly as always, but didn’t join them. 

“Morning, Mr. Solomons,” Tommy says, trying to sound brisk. Businesslike. This is his house, his meeting. This should be his conversation. Alfie nods his head, benevolent like a king, and makes a low, rumbling noise of acknowledgment. 

He looks… _different._ And very much the same. He’s dressed up, Tommy notices – what can be considered “dressing up” by his standards, which means that the clothes are expensive, but the entire ensemble still looks like he threw it on in a hurry, all of it slightly askew. As always, he looks like a mess, Tommy thinks – tries to make it an unfavorable thought and doesn’t quite manage. Something about it is just… achingly familiar. The world might end and the stars might fall, but Alfie Solomons will never bother to put on an actual tie. It’s a weirdly reassuring thought. 

Tommy makes it a point to look him up and down where he’s stood by the window, once, blank-faced. He seems broader, Tommy thinks, maybe because he put on some weight, or maybe because he’s wearing more layers than usual. It makes him seem more immovable somehow, like a tree putting down more and more roots over time. 

“It is, mate, yeah, it is,” Alfie says.

“Drink?” Tommy asks innocently. Alfie will decline and they both know it, but it’s an easy way to draw boundaries. Tommy _used_ to know he never drank, but he can barely even remember anymore, because why would he? Not his business. Not like he fucking cares.

“Nahh, I don’t touch it, mate,” Alfie says mildly.

“Suit yourself,” Tommy says and pours himself a drink. 

“Your housekeeper, yeah? She says we’re fuckin’ lucky your even here right now, doesn’t she. ‘Cause apparently, yeah, apparently, mate, you keep sleeping outside in the fuckin’ stables, hmm? Don’t you. Up in the hayloft all night, come wandering back in the mornin’ like some cat what has been in heat all night.”

Tommy shrugs, caught off guard. Feels faintly embarrassed and doesn't know why.

“I sleep in the stables,” he says and clears his throat. “Whenever a foal is due.”

It’s blatantly untrue. He does it a lot more often and for no reason at all, just because he can. Sometimes, the fresh air and the animal noises from down below keep the shovels at bay. Wakes at sunrise, each and every time, curled up underneath the same old horse blanket, to climb down and get back to the house in time to get ready for the day. 

“Says you’re gonna catch your death carryin’ on like that, temperatures bein’ what they are, yeah?”

Tommy stares at him. Doesn’t tell him he’s used to it. Doesn’t admit he spent the better part of his childhood sleeping under the open sky. Doesn’t say he’s a lot more likely to catch his death indoors these days anyway, but then again, he probably doesn’t need to spell that one out, because they’re both more than aware of it already. 

“You come all the way up here to ask Mary about my sleeping habits?”

“Well,” Alfie says, unimpressed, drawing out the word. “Was passing through anyway, wasn’t I.”

“Lucky coincidence,” Tommy deadpans. Crosses the room to pointedly sit down in one of the two guest chairs, puts down his glass on the desk and fishes his cigarettes out of his pocket. After a moment of what might be hesitation, might be not, Alfie follows his lead and sinks down in the other one with a groan. He brought his cane, but he’s not using it much, Tommy already noticed; barely even putting any weight on it as long as he’s standing still. 

This is fucking strange, Tommy thinks, as he’s slowly lighting up a cigarette, just to have some time to collect his thoughts. He expected… he’s not sure what he expected. Hostility, probably. Distrust. Which is there, granted, the same underlying layer of… he doesn’t even know what to call it. Good-natured suspicion, maybe, even though that sounds ridiculous. The point is, that has always been there, it’s nothing new. Feels as familiar as the sight of Alfie’s undone shirt buttons. 

It almost seems like they were both expecting to take their cues from each other and completely forgot to have an actual reaction, and now it appears they’ve missed their initial window for animosity and seem to have ended up having a civil conversation by mistake. 

Can’t help but add, “Where are you going, then? Eh? If you’re just passing.”

If Alfie feels called out, he doesn’t show it. 

“S’nothing but his own business, innit,” he says, unimpressed, and puts both hands on top of his cane, one neatly on top of the other. “Where a man chooses to go or not to fuckin’ go, mate, in his own bloody time.”

“That it is,” Tommy says. “That it is.”

This shouldn’t feel fucking _companionable,_ of all things, Tommy thinks. This shouldn’t be easy. 

“And in any case, yeah,” Alfie says conversationally, maybe a bit petulant. “From what I’ve heard, yeah, you shouldn’t be the one throwing stones, right, since you’re fuckin’ about with the Russians, aren’t you?”

Tommy blinks at him, caught off guard. 

“No,” he says then. It’s pedantic, really, Tommy bristling at the idea of being found out already. Which is stupid anyway, a clear oversight on his part, because he should’ve expected Alfie to ask around beforehand; of course he wasn’t going to take the trip without at least some vague idea of what he might be walking into. 

“No?” Alfie says, skeptical, clearly recognizing the pettiness for what it is. It feels fucking strange, having the conversation like this, sitting right next to each other instead of facing off with the desk between them. Intimate. Like this, it’s an actual choice to look at each other – have to turn to do that. There’s not a lot of distance to be had, either. 

“No,” Tommy says and leans over, reaches for the folder on top of the desk to fish out the letter. Puts it on the desk in front of Alfie, like some indisputable proof. Alfie stares down at the pieces of paper in front of him for a long second, then back up at Tommy like he’s confused, then down at the paper again. Makes a big production of putting on his glasses, mumbling to himself, before he drags the paper towards him with one fingertip right in the center, pulling it to the very edge of the desk. 

Tommy can see the exact moment he realizes it’s written in Russian, almost imperceptibly straightening his shoulders – confusion, recognition, caution, who could say. 

“You can read that?” Tommy says, even though it’s a rhetorical question, they both know the answer is yes. Suddenly, Tommy can’t help but think of the book about Russian fairy tales and all its colorful illustrations, the one Alfie used to have in his bedroom. Can’t help but wonder if it’s still there. If Alfie still browses it from time to time, the way he used to when they were… _well._ Not important, really. 

Over the rim of his glasses, Alfie gives him a sharp look. Doesn’t say anything for once, just pushes the first paper off the second one and to the side, so he has both pages spread out next to each other on the desktop, bends his head down again and starts to read in earnest. Tommy fishes for his cigarettes, lights one up in the meantime.

Alfie’s done reading after a minute and a half, Tommy can tell. Spends another minute staring at the paper, either pretending to read or maybe genuinely occupied with his own thoughts. It’s impossible to tell when he’s putting on a show or and when he’s not sometimes. Tommy thinks he used to be rather good at it, probably better than most people, but this is still confusing. Maybe he’s out of practice. 

“S’fuckin’ shoddy penmanship, that,” Alfie says eventually, casually.

“Not really.”

“Not asking for a translation, are you.”

“No,” Tommy says. 

“Hmmm.”

There is a moment of silence. “Russians, then.” 

“Georgians,” Tommy says, taking a long drag from his cigarette. “Actually.”

Alfie holds both of his palms up in mock-surrender. “My apologies, right. A lot of fuckin’ difference that makes.”

“Not really,” Tommy says, just to be irritating.

“Right, well,” Alfie says and he does seem actually annoyed now. Tommy always suspected that Russian aristocracy might be a sensitive topic. Can’t say he feels too bad about being right, or for bringing it up, for that matter. “Mighty fuckin’ good of old George to let some of those fuckers stay, innit, help ‘em out in their dire time of need, yeah, instead of doin’ the decent thing and puttin’ all of their heads on fuckin’ spikes, mate. No doubt about that. Now. What the fuck, right, if you don’t mind me askin’, what in the _fuck_ does any of that have to do with me?”

“You notice the description of the house?”

“Yeah,” Alfie says. “I did, yeah.” Doesn’t even bother to look back down at the pages to make sure.

“The paragraph about the treasury?”

 _“...thankfully, a solution for their most precious heirlooms has been found underneath our temporary new home,”_ Alfie proclaims in a sing-song voice, clearly citing the letter, even though he’s still not looking down to check. It’s not the exact same translation Tommy has available, not verbatim at least, but it’s obviously the same meaning. Tommy easily recognizes which sentence he’s quoting. 

Has to bite back an unexpected smile all of a sudden, biting the inside of his cheek, because… well. Of course Alfie zeroed in on that part. Of _course_ he fucking noticed. 

“Yeah,” Tommy says. Gets up and actually goes around his desk, to unlock the top drawer and take out the sapphire. Carefully places it on the desk between them. Over on his side, Alfie has gone perfectly still. 

“Huh,” he says.

“Sure,” Tommy says, well aware he sounds smug and not caring at all. “That sums it up. Why not.”

Alfie looks at him; keeps eye contact the whole time as he slowly reaches out and takes the sapphire for closer inspection, like Tommy might snatch it away at the last second. Turns it this way and that while he squints at it through his glasses; holds it up towards the window and then goes so far as to turn on the lamp that’s sitting on Tommy’s desk, even though that doesn’t seem to make much of a difference, at least not as far as Tommy can tell.

“You’re not getting that, by the way,” Tommy says. “Just so we’re clear.”

He’s not sure Alfie even hears him. 

“Hmmm,” he says eventually, once he’s good and done, and puts his glasses back down. “Yeah, okay, mate. Sure. I, right, I am officially listening, aren’t I?”

“Great,” Tommy says, deadpan. Holds out his hand, palm open, because Alfie is still holding on to the sapphire – casually, like he forgot he even has it, which is absolutely not the case. And Tommy _tries_ not to be amused by the blatant, utterly predictable attempt, he really does, but it’s no use. He absolutely is.

Alfie makes a disgruntled noise and reluctantly puts the stone in Tommy’s hand. They don’t touch, both of them seeming to make sure there’s no unnecessary contact, but for a moment, Tommy _still_ imagines he can feel the warmth from his hand, which is just… no, he thinks, suddenly furious. He’s not fucking doing this again. 

“One more thing,” he says hastily.

Alfie leans back in this chair, sighing deeply. “Yeah, what? What else? Fuckin’ hell, you got a fuckin’ laundry list today, mate, haven’t you?”

“No,” Tommy says and can’t help but clear his throat before he continues, “There’s… a man. A priest. He’s… he insists on _visiting_ our orphanage, once it’s officially open.” Doesn’t bother to hide the disdain in his voice. 

“Oh, he _insists,_ does he,” Alfie says. Doesn’t bother asking why the fuck Tommy would ever think to let him, which is the most obvious question, all things considered.

“He takes great personal interest,” Tommy says, a lot more clipped than he actually intended. He’s well aware he’s staring down at the desk now, because for whatever fucking reason it seems impossible to actually look Alfie in the face while he says it. “In hearing confession. _Taking care_ of all of the kids. Especially the boys.”

“Does he now,” Alfie says, softly. He sounds like an entire forest gone quiet, unnatural and ominous. 

“Yes.”

“Hmmmmm,” Alfie says. He still hasn’t moved – when Tommy finally manages to raise his head, he doesn’t look different at all, but at the same time, it seems like being in the room with a wild animal all of a sudden, something about him turned dark and feral and entirely unsettling. For whatever reason, something in the back of Tommy’s mind picks _now_ as the ideal time to realize that… Tommy might actually really enjoy his company. Might _like_ having him around, even. He’s not sure if he was ever consciously aware of this. He is, however, absolutely fucking sure that this is a useless realization. It would have been useless nine months ago and it is even more useless now. 

“And you’d like to… what?” Alfie says. “Guide him on his path to salvation? Speed up the proceedings, maybe, yeah? Help him along?” and he’s got it in one, just like Tommy knew he would. 

“I would, yes,” Tommy says.

“So now you’ve resorted to conspiring with the Jews, yeah, to do your fucking bidding, mate? Hmm?”

“He’ll see it coming,” Tommy says. “If it’s me.”

“Will he, now?” Alfie says mildly. “Is that right? Tell me, Thomas, how’d a holy man like that get the impression, right, that you don’t like him?”

Tommy _almost_ grins at him, catches himself just in time. “I have no idea.”

“Yeah,” Alfie says. “Yeah, I bet you don’t, mate. What’d you say that name was again?”

“John Hughes.”

“Hmmmm.”

“You heard of him?”

“Nahhh,” Alfie says, relaxing back into his chair. He’s made a mental note of the name, Tommy would be willing to bet this entire house. “Truth be told, yeah, they all look the same to me, don’t they, priests and pastors and such. Useless pricks, the lot of 'em.”

“That a yes?”

“Welllll,” Alfie says. “We’ll have to see about that, won’t we, ultimately. Though I’m sure, right, I’m sure there’s something to be done, yeah, to solve that particular problem. As I’ve already said, mate… I’m fuckin’ listening.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Could I write an entire book about them just shooting the shit while actually (more or less) being on the same page about something? You bet I could. Would I enjoy it? Probably.

**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact no 1: The working title for this was _"a new hope(less disaster on the horizon)"_  
>  Fun fact no 2: The actual title is an actual German (Jewish?) saying. Could I have chosen something more poetic? Sure. Did I want to? No.  
> Fun fact no 3: This feels like writing... idek, season 2 of this stupid-ass porn AU or something. Clowning: The Sequel  
>   
> (Pray for me. I want to finish this and I want it to have even the _semblance_ of an actual plot for once. I'm speaking it into existence, goddammit!)  
>   
>   
> Btw I'm [bakedapplesauce](https://bakedapplesauce.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.


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